Oath Breaker (Sons of Odin Book 3) (21 page)

She thought of the tiny life growing inside her. Ulfrik’s babe; the only thing she had left of him. How could she possibly keep the child safe from his brother’s blade? Selia knew upon birth the child’s life was forfeit.

“Perhaps I am,” she said quietly. “Perhaps it would be better for you to kill me now.”

Chapter 35

Selia stood at the rail, silently taking in the familiar, stark beauty of the rocky coastline as the dragonship sailed between the cleft in the cliffs, toward Alrik’s farmstead. Little had changed since she’d been here last. Little, yet everything.

Her belly lurched and she took shallow breaths until the sickness passed. She remembered a feeling of similar anxiety nine summers ago, when her gaze had focused on what she’d assumed was a village built upon the bright green hillside, overlooking a bay of shimmering blue. That farmstead became her home.

She’d been barely more than a child then. Sheltered and inexperienced, Selia had been completely unprepared for her new role as mistress of a wealthy Finngall farmstead. But her love for Alrik had burned bright, capable of surmounting the odds stacked against her. And so it had, for a time.

Now, she returned to Norse soil as something other than mistress of Alrik’s estate. An escaped thrall? A shamed wife? Selia wasn’t sure what her role was any longer. But she knew things could never be the same. Every vestige of sentiment still remaining in her heart for Alrik Ragnarson had died the moment she’d watched Ulfrik go over the edge of the cliff. Now the home she’d once shared with Alrik seemed nothing more than a prison.

Selia’s irrational fear—that a spell cast by a cunning woman had made her fall in love with Alrik years ago and would do so again—seemed laughable. Her love for him was dead. The weight of dark magic had been lifted from her shoulders, and she knew without a doubt Alrik had a hold on her no longer.

If the spell had indeed existed, as her mother insisted, it had been broken the day of Ulfrik’s death. Selia was free of whatever fascination had drawn her into Alrik’s web of desire and kept a dark grip on her for so many years.

The ship eased into the dock, and a few thralls came toward them to unload. She saw Keir emerge from the main house, drying her hands on her apron. Their eyes met and the thrall stilled. Even from this distance, the look of sorrow on her face was unmistakable.

Selia turned to Alrik. “I want to visit Hrefna’s grave. Alone.” He’d informed her Hrefna was dead, but had refused to provide any more details than that.

“Absolutely not,” he retorted.

“Where do you think I could go? There isn’t a Finngall in Norway who would take me in. And you have my son.” Selia squared her shoulders. “You got what you wanted, Alrik. You won. Now let me visit Hrefna’s grave. You owe me that.”

The breeze blew Selia’s loose curls around her face as she scaled the ridge filled with swaying wildflowers. She stopped to catch her breath, her eyes traveling over the numerous graves of the burial ground.

One off to the side was Ragnarr’s. As a Hersir, Ragnarr should have been entitled to a grand funeral pyre, including sacrificed slaves to serve him in the afterlife. But he’d been entombed very crudely, no better than a thrall.

His grave was piled high with stones as an extra measure to keep his corpse firmly entombed. The Finngalls believed the dead walked at night if given the opportunity to escape their grave, and so no one was willing to chance that happening with Ragnarr The Mad.

Near him Treasa, Ulfrik’s mother, had been buried. Selia knew Ragnarr’s insistence that the slave girl be interred in the family burial site had been the final insult to his wife, leading to the argument that had ended with Evja’s death.

The other graves in the family plot were delineated by an outline of stones in the shape of a boat, then filled in with rocks. Two other graves close together contained Evja and her son Jorulf, also killed at Ragnarr’s hand. Then Eydis, Alrik’s first wife, and three little graves, their two daughters and a stillborn boy child. Ulfrik’s first wife Hilda was buried next to her sister.

Was Ulfrik with them all now? Reunited with his mother, and with Hilda and their unborn babe? The thought gave her comfort. She longed so badly for him to be at peace.

Yet Selia had a sense he was not; that instead he searched for her, restless and protective. Could spirits travel across the sea? Would he find her at last, and end his brother’s life by some ghostly means? Although Ulfrik had died a Christian, he was still a Finngall. The need for vengeance was in his blood.

Selia knelt by the grave nearest the entrance to the burial ground. She lay down on her side, her head pillowed by her arm, and closed her eyes, then skimmed her fingers over the rocks closest to where Hrefna’s head would be. Had the stone boat borne Alrik’s aunt to a peaceful afterlife?

A vision of the woman came quickly, a happy, smiling Hrefna from the days before Olaf died. A Hrefna with color in her cheeks and a spring in her step, the memory so real Selia felt the woman’s arms around her as she enveloped her in a hug; smelled the familiar scent of Hrefna’s hair. Selia smiled even as a sob escaped her throat.

“I’m so sorry,” she choked out. “I shouldn’t have left you with him.” Selia drew in a shuddering breath. “I love you, Hrefna. You were always a mother to me. I wish you safe journey. I hope you’ve found Olaf and your stillborn babes.”

The breeze that kissed her cheek felt like Hrefna’s familiar caress. Selia’s eyes flew open, half expecting to see the woman’s ghost, but there was nothing but the swaying flowers. She sat up and brushed the tears from her face.

“I still need your help, Hrefna,” she whispered. “I need your strength. I want nothing more than to be with Ulfrik. But I must live to protect Faolan, and to protect this babe as well.” Selia cupped her belly, still flat, where Ulfrik’s child grew. “I’m afraid Alrik will kill this child once it’s born. I could trick him into thinking it’s his . . .”

Selia shook her head before she’d even spoken the rest aloud. “No. I can’t let Alrik touch me. This child is Ulfrik’s and I must find a way to keep it safe. I wish you were still here, Hrefna. You would know what to do.”

Keir waited for her at the bottom of the hill. Head lowered respectfully, hands clasped in front, the all-too familiar posture of a thrall sent a shot of anger through Selia’s veins. The time spent aboard Gunnar One-Eye’s ship, serving the men and emptying their slop buckets, leapt to mind as fresh as if it had happened yesterday. Her time as a slave had been brief, thankfully, but poor Keir would be bowing her head to others for the rest of her life.

Selia went to the woman and enveloped her in a hug. Keir stiffened, then relaxed into Selia’s embrace. “Mistress,” she said quietly. “I have missed you greatly.”

“And I you, Keir.” Selia drew back, gazing at the woman until she raised her eyes to meet Selia’s. “I am glad to see you are well. Tell me about Hrefna. I feel so guilty for leaving her. Did she suffer?”

Keir shook her head. “She did not suffer. But she fought death until the very end. I believe she knew the longer she could keep Master Alrik from going after you, the safer you would be.”

Selia’s eyebrows shot up. “So he was here when she died?”

“Yes. He barely left her side, although they argued as they always did. His men found the dragonship only a few days after you left. But he wouldn’t leave with Hrefna as ill as she was.” Keir’s eyes filled with tears. “She would ask me every day if it was winter yet. The day I told her there was frost upon the ground was the day she died.”

Selia blinked back her own tears as her gaze traveled up to the hill where Hrefna now rested. The woman had very likely saved them from Alrik. If he’d left as soon as he found the dragonship, he would have only been a few days behind and could have easily found them in Dubhlinn while they waited for Ulfrik to return from Oengul’s island.

Selia pushed aside the thought of Alrik refusing to leave his aunt during her illness. She needed to continue hating him. “How has Alrik been? He looks terrible.”

Keir cast her gaze to the ground. “He drinks much ale and does little else. Master Bolli visits often. His other men stay clear of him. I think they are waiting for him to die so Master Bolli can be Hersir.”

Selia pondered thoughtfully. She’d briefly considered killing Alrik herself in order to escape, either with a blade or with poison. But she had no doubt his men would avenge their leader, leaving Ulfrik’s babe dead and Faolan motherless.

This new information from Keir gave her a brief sense of hope. Alrik was killing himself with drink and everyone knew it. Perhaps all she had to do was bide her time until he succeeded.

Yet Alrik’s early demise would bring its own dangers. Although Bolli’s foot had healed as well as could be expected, he was still too lame to lead a war band of men into battle. She’d noticed on the ship that Bolli no longer used a cane to walk. Instead, he wore a boot reinforced with metal on each side, keeping his foot and ankle stable but not allowing any bend. Bolli now walked with a stiff, flat-footed gait that seemed to serve him well enough on the ship but would not be practical for rough terrain of any sort.

Would the men be willing to have him as Hersir if Alrik died before Faolan reached manhood? Hrefna had told her long ago that the death of a Hersir was a dangerous time for a war band, leading to infighting and bloodshed. Any young sons of the dead Hersir were considered at risk for foul play, for the new Hersir wouldn’t want threats to his claim as the boys grew to manhood. Killing children was easier than killing adult warriors.

Selia shivered. She hadn’t expected Bolli Ketilson to be a threat to her son’s life. Bolli was a grown man now, not the boy with kind eyes she’d remembered. Her attempts to draw his gaze on the ship had failed; he ignored her as the other men did. Somehow, she would need to let him know Faolan had no interest in becoming Hersir when Alrik died.

Selia grasped Keir’s shoulder until the woman met her eyes. “I will need your help to keep Faolan safe, Keir. We must be wary of Bolli and the other men—I never want them alone with my son.”

The night was heavy with tension as the three of them supped at the massive oak table that seemed to already be occupied by ghosts. Selia, Alrik and Faolan ate in silence, served by Keir and another thrall Selia didn’t recognize. The girl was young and blond, with fresh skin and large blue eyes. She blushed whenever she filled Alrik’s cup.

Selia could only hope the slave girl had taken her place in Alrik’s bed.

Alrik drank a copious amount of ale, eating very little. Selia studied him furtively. In the flickering torchlight he looked even sicklier than he had in daylight, the shadows of his cheekbones and eye sockets sharp, the yellowish tint to his skin and eyes more pronounced.

The food smelled delicious after the steady diet of stale bread, dried meat, and fish they’d eaten on the ship. But Selia had no appetite. Every bite turned to ash in her mouth.

“Eat,” Alrik ordered as she picked at her food.

Selia pushed her plate away. “I’ve had enough.”

He grunted, watching her over the rim of his cup as he quaffed a long draught of ale. “How did you come by that scar on your face?” he finally asked.

“Your cousin Einarr hit me,” she stated bluntly. “He tried to force himself on me and I stabbed him.”

Alrik and Faolan both gaped. Selia saw furious tears well up in Faolan’s eyes, and realized she’d never told anyone other than Bahati and Ingrid the truth of her ugly scar. Ulfrik had guessed the truth the day she’d seen Einarr at the docks in Baile Átha Cliath, but they’d had no time to speak of it.

Alrik slammed his cup on the table with a thud. “Gunnar told me Ulfrik had killed Einarr Drengsson, but he neglected to tell me why.”

Selia met his gaze, shaking with emotion. The mention of Ulfrik’s name, spoken so casually by Alrik, pierced her to the core. “What did you expect when you joined with such an evil man as Gunnar? The truth?”

Alrik appeared deep in thought as he chewed a bite of food. She wanted to strike him.

“I would like to go to bed now,” she managed. “Where will I sleep?”

He swallowed his mouthful. “You will sleep in our bedchamber.”

“Then I will do so with a dagger by my side.” Gritting her teeth, Selia rose and led Faolan from the table.

She lay sleepless on sheets of silk, waiting for Alrik with a knot of dread in her belly. She’d told Faolan to sleep in Hrefna’s bedchamber with the door latched. That room held no bed, as Alrik had moved it to his bedchamber after destroying his own. So Faolan had taken furs and blankets into Hrefna’s room and made a pallet on the floor.

The comforting feeling of Hrefna was strong in her room, and Selia knew the woman’s spirit would watch over her son. She’d left Faolan with a kiss and a firm warning not to unlatch the door until morning. Keir’s ominous words of Bolli and the fractioning war band weighed heavily upon her mind.

But there was no one to protect Selia from Alrik. He would force himself upon her, of that she had no doubt. He hadn’t come all the way to Ireland to retrieve her for them to sleep in separate beds.

Logic told her to let Alrik have his way with her so she could pass Ulfrik’s babe off as his. If she waited too long she would lose her chance for this option to be viable. But the thought of submitting to Alrik, even under the guise of protecting her unborn child, was unbearable.

If Alrik took her, it would be by force. Selia couldn’t willingly allow him to touch her.

He stumbled into the room late in the night, waking Selia from a fitful sleep. She’d left a candle burning on the table, and the flickering light from the stub offered enough illumination to see he was very drunk.

She stared as he undressed, stifling her gasp of shock at the appearance of his body. Always a huge man, massive and muscular no matter how much he drank, it seemed now his unhealthy habits had finally caught up with him. His body was thin and ropy, his belly oddly shaped considering how emaciated he was. Alrik’s normally flat stomach now protruded, just under his ribcage.

Selia’s panic escalated as he approached the bed. “Do not do this, Alrik,” she pleaded.

“Should I check the bed for a dagger?” he slurred.

If only she did have a dagger, or any weapon for that matter. “I will not give myself to you, now or ever again. Forcing me will only feed the hate I feel for you.”